


Momentum

by YankingAwry



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety Skating (tm), M/M, Pining, Quadruple Flips, Romance, Second Kiss, crippling insecurity leading to an unnecessary amount of, he's tiny like that, post episode 7, yuuri introspects a lot while skating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 05:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8652637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YankingAwry/pseuds/YankingAwry
Summary: Here was how the scene went in Yuuri’s head:
  Victor, frozen, clueless: the ruins of a smile on his face. But Yuuri, I thought you knew! It was only to surprise you. It meant nothing more-
  Yuuri: spine limp, head hanging, tears streaking down his face and collecting at his chin, dripping like an old faucet onto the ground. Words exploding out of his mouth, wet, glottal: Then just stop! Stop doing things that mean nothing to you, and everything to me!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thejohntent](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thejohntent/gifts).



> this fic is for liv <3 I love you liv, and these words will be waiting for you once you get off your ass and watch the damn show!
> 
> a million thanks to bruna a.k.a. [moriarty](http://www.moriarty.tumblr.com) for going Full Beta Mode, lightning fast! she's the best!

 

 

 

_8:44 PM, CST_

_Hotel Nikko New Century Beijing_

 

 

Yuuri stepped off the elevator and looked down the long corridor. It was empty. His room was right at the end, opposite Victor’s. It was strange; his eyes were burning and his skull felt enormous, ready to burst out of his head. He zipped open his fleece jacket and tugged aside the medal, placing his hand over his heart. Was it still beating? It was. Good.

A few hours ago, there was a Yuuri who had been kissed.

A Yuuri who had been kissed by a Victor—no, _the_ Victor—his head held in the soft crook of Victor’s elbow. A Yuuri who had lifted his head from the ice to smile up at Victor. A Yuuri who had clutched his silver, the promise of invincibility and the echo of Victor’s lips thrumming through his body. That Yuuri was a stranger to him.

He sank down to his haunches. When that didn’t help, he let himself fall on his bum, and rested his head against the wall, scrubbing at his temples. His medal weighed down on his chest, an anchor, but not the kind that tethered you afloat—the kind that pulled you under.

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and Victor strode out, then stopped. 

“There you are!”

He knelt down, smiling. He was always smiling! It was insensitive of him, Yuuri thought, slightly hysterical. The least he could do was alert in advance: _close your eyes, citizens, this might greatly strain your heart._

Yuuri closed his eyes.

There was a rustle of clothing, the rasp of velcro coming unstuck, and then a hand, curling around his ankle. Yuuri sucked in a breath, eyes flying open. Victor was slipping off his sneakers, head bent, fringe falling in neat lines and covering his forehead, and Yuuri couldn’t see his eyes, but he could see his mouth. His lips were pressed together and ticked towards one side, amused, as if Victor knew he was being watched. He probably did. Victor knew everything.

The right shoe came off, then the left, and then his socks. Victor stuffed them neatly into the hollows of the shoes, and asked, “Better?”  
Yuuri tilted his head to see what he was talking about—oh, yes, he hadn’t noticed. His feet looked pinked and raw.  
A small furrow appeared between Victor’s eyebrows. “This is why I don’t trust you to tie your own skates. It has to be _tight_ ,” and his hands cupped Yuuri’s left ankle, squeezing for emphasis.

Yuuri swallowed a sound too embarrassing to voice, before Victor stood up and then looked back at him, expectant.

“Yuuri, are you going to make me pick you up?” What! It sounded like a warning, but it also sounded teasing, and it wasn’t like Yuuri was a stranger to that. Victor had a way of making the most cutting condemnations sound vaguely _flirty—_

He was pulled up and gathered into Victor’s arms in one quick motion. He gasped, then belatedly clapped a hand to his mouth. Victor laughed. “You act like I haven’t heard worse.” He winked, and _oh_ , if Yuuri had been in doubt that his heart was still beating, he wasn’t now. He screwed his eyes shut, cheeks itchy from how hot they felt, and felt Victor nudge at his bare feet with his loafers.

“I’m going to walk for you. Place your feet on mine, that’s it, and hold me—”

Yuuri was taking careful, shallow breaths, obeying Victor’s instructions. Abruptly, he felt the urge to grab Victor’s sweater vest and inhale the stale perfume and sweat, then press their chests together, maybe skim his nose along Victor’s jaw—

This proximity was doing things to his mind. In flashes, he remembered five hours of darkness; the elastic of a night blind biting at his temples; Victor’s warm weight pinning him to the bed, hair tickling Yuuri’s chin; five hours of holding his body taut as if in starting position with a spotlight trained on him, trying so, so hard not to tremble.

“Hey,” Victor laughed, moving forward one careful step at a time, arms tightening around Yuuri. “See? We’re walking—”

“Victor—”

He didn’t know how to do this. He could ask, except.

Except.

Here was how the scene went in Yuuri’s head:

Victor, frozen, clueless: the ruins of a smile on his face. _But Yuuri, I thought you knew! It was only to surprise you. It meant nothing more—_

Yuuri: spine limp, head hanging, tears streaking down his face and collecting at his chin, dripping like an old faucet onto the ground. Words exploding out of his mouth, wet, glottal: _Then just stop! Stop doing things that mean nothing to you, and everything to me!_

“Yes?” Victor let go of his waist, and Yuuri stumbled backward, his back hitting the room door.

“I—”

Victor seemed to loom. He was too close for Yuuri’s liking, and somehow not close enough. His eyes were large and shining, and, inexplicably, Yuuri thought of seagulls arcing high over teal waves.

_Victor. You kissed me with your eyes closed, and now I can’t close my own eyes without seeing the shadow your eyelashes make across your cheek—_

“—nothing,” he ended lamely, fist clenching at his side. “Thank you for... for this. And—this,” he touched the medal on his chest.

“Ah. It suits you. Though not as well as gold.” Victor fingered the sash of the medal, then used it to pull Yuuri to him, knocking their foreheads together. Yuuri’s eyes widened— _always_ looking to surprise—and he _feared_ , he _hoped._

Victor said, joyous and fierce, “You have to know that you will win. I just wish you could see yourself the way I see you. And Yuuri,” his smile spread, warm, liquid, “I promise to stand by your side. Always.”

Yuuri nodded hard, lips pressed tightly together. He wasn’t going to cry, he wasn’t, he wasn’t going to be weird and tearful and awful.

“Good night,” Victor said, gently letting go of the sash. Then he turned, unlocked his door, and closed it behind him without looking back.

Yuuri looked at his own door for several seconds, before taking out his phone.

 

* * *

 

  _9:21 PM, CST_

_Champion Ice Skating Rink, Jinyuan Shopping Mall_

 

 

“I have my own skates,” Yuuri said, paranoia making him tug his fringe lower and avoid looking directly at the attendant. He didn’t want to be recognised. There was a flyer announcing the TV schedule for the Audi Cup tacked onto the bulletin board right by the counter.

She shrugged. “The ticket fee is inclusive of skate charges, so… up to you.” Yuuri nodded at the floor, and the attendant promptly went back to watching something on her phone. “Off-side!” she yelled angrily at her screen a moment later.

There was about an hour to closing time. This was the nearest rink to the hotel—it was small, and painfully old-fashioned. It reminded him of the Ice Castle during his childhood, before the renovations. Yuuri gripped the metal sideboard (metal, not plexiglass!) and stretched. And then, because he couldn’t keep Victor quiet in his mind, he knotted his laces extra-tight.

He took off, gliding, covering the entire expanse of the rink before looping back to do mindless figure-eights, over and over, around the two pillars planted in the middle of the ice. The speakers were playing soft, British pop music.

The Rostelecom Cup was in three weeks. He couldn’t let Victor down. He couldn’t let himself down. Victor was a brash coach at times, but it was the brashness that worked, that pulled the blood to the surface of Yuuri’s skin, like moon and tide–that made him more _alive_ , made him _better_.  

Victor: parading into rooms and hearts which were meant to be locked, taking the worst (no, the _best_ ) liberties with his touches, making Yuuri’s skin burn. He wanted to do that, touch _Victor_ in a shocking way, make _his_ heart skid, make _him_ feel awed.

He was skating now with his eyes fully closed, and he imagined–

He imagined Victor’s breath, humid and sweet, on his neck—on his jaw, on his lips—Victor’s long fingers, lifting the hem of his t-shirt–

He arched his back for a slow layback spin, and imagined Victor’s fingers skittering across his ribs, drawing him like a bow.  

He didn’t know why he hadn’t realised it until now, that his best performances were the ones he offered up with nothing further inside him left to give, bleeding red onto white ice, his naked desire and stricken heart arranged on a platter— _here Victor, take these, until I live up to you, I will live for you, and even after that._

That’s what it took to be a victor. You had to first lose everything.

He was panting now, and his muscles were burning, but there was something reverberating through his body. A mania had taken over the anxiety, and he felt that if he were to launch just right, he might keep skating through the air, higher and higher, like a seagull, until the tops of his fingers grazed the ceiling—and it wouldn’t be absurd, or impossible. It would be real.

He slowed as he reached the end of the rink, and turned.

Victor Nikiforov was standing all the way at the other end, gripping the sideboard. Motionless. Watching.  

_Victor! You found me!_

Yuuri came to a halt.

_How did you find me? How do you know everything?_

Then, he exhaled, and tore across the white expanse before leaping, body twisting, time slowing, the beat of his heart reaching its crescendo,  

one,

two,

three,

 _four_ ,

Yuuri landed squarely on the edge of his blade, and he spun once before facing Victor, chest heaving.

Victor’s smile was wide, so wide, almost blinding. His dark, gloved hands were pressing his pale cheeks down, and he was looking at Yuuri through his fingers, as if there was something about Yuuri which was blinding, too. He shook his head from side to side, and then with one, fluid movement, he cleared the sideboard and skid straight into Yuuri.

“That was perfect,” he exclaimed, knocking him down onto the ice for the second time that day. Yuuri groaned happily, and then Victor sat back on his haunches and lifted Yuuri onto his lap, fingers gripping his hips. “No, you don’t understand, it was _perfect_ , it was technically _flawless_ , no one could have done that the way you did—and with so _little_ momentum—” Victor let go of his hips and brought his hands to Yuuri’s neck, then his face, the soft wool dragging across Yuuri’s cheeks.

“Victor,” Yuuri said shyly, and Victor went silent, his blue-green eyes searching, swallowing Yuuri’s face. Yuuri clasped one of Victor’s hands and brought it down. He removed the glove from Victor’s hand one glove finger at a time, and he didn’t dare to look at Victor’s face, because otherwise—otherwise, he might not—

He brought Victor’s hand to his lips, and kissed his palm-lines.

And then, braver than he had ever been, he craned upwards to bring down Victor’s head. Victor bowed immediately, wordlessly, and inhaled as Yuuri pressed a kiss to his going-bald spot, then another, to his hairline.

“Victor,” Yuuri whispered, for no reason at all, and it had no meaning to it. Almost.

When Victor looked up, there was an attractive band of pink across his cheeks, and Yuuri was delighted, because he could make Victor Nikiforov blush. It made far more sense than it would have yesterday, because today—today, he could land a quadruple flip!

“I only have one way left to surprise you,” Yuuri said, half-apologetic, before leaning in to kiss him. He had an instant to appreciate the triumphant smile breaking across Victor’s face before he closed his eyes.

Their lips fell open right away, and _oh_ , Yuuri’s breath hitched. Victor’s mouth was hot, and moist—he pulled Yuuri closer, his ungloved hand curved around Yuuri’s neck, thumb pressing down on his pulse point, the other a warm weight on the small of Yuuri’s back. He kissed Yuuri masterfully, as if kissing Yuuri was a tricky, beautiful variation on the Salchow.

Victor broke off, breathing heavily, and just as Yuuri opened his eyes, he kissed him again, once, on the corner of his lips, and it was astounding. How were they were still on firm ice, and not an embarrassing puddle of meltwater? _Yuri on fire_ , was what it felt like.

“Uhh,” Yuuri’s head whipped around—the attendant was lingering by the sideboard. She cleared her throat, evidently torn between being indifferent and disturbed. “The rink closes in five minutes.”

“That’s fine,” Victor said, not even turning to look at her, a lopsided smile lifting one cheek. “We were just leaving.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading, let me know what you think! :>  
> i just played around with locations in Beijing (all of them are real, of course, and situated in the Haidan district—but I'm not sure where the Audi cup would've been held).  
> also, episode nine? is going to fuck. us. up. i am not prepared  
> EDIT (30/11/2016): what did I fucking tell you


End file.
